


The Cafe Musain

by trashprincehamlet



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Literally no happiness, Multi, pure angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-03 00:50:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4080214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashprincehamlet/pseuds/trashprincehamlet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dead's souls may leave, but memories of their time on earth remain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cafe Musain

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is a ficlet I made for Barricade Day (and to procrastinate updating my Hetalia fanfictions). Hope you like it!

“Oy, who’re these two?”

Alexandre fumbled his way through the large, ruined cafe, responding to his comrade’s call. It had been a meeting place for the rebels who had built this particular section of the barricades. He heaved a sigh, still irritated at losing his vacation because of the summons from Paris.

And just who had Alexandre missed his sister’s baptism for? A group of young men-with some women thrown in, possibly, crossdressing was not difficult to pull off-hardly younger than he was, who fought with the same passion and courage he did, though for a different cause and the opposing side.

The young soldier looked around the abandoned building once more. Everywhere, there was charred wood and damaged tables and chairs, remnants of the losing battle fought there the night before. But if you took the time to look closely, you would find relics of the once-living, the students who had sung of a tomorrow that never came.

There was a charred notebook with the initials “J.P.” drawn on it in the corner, and when Alexandre picked it up, he saw it was full of poetry, sketches of scenery, and quotations from books. A few love letters from a certain Courfeyrac were stuffed in, too. The last page showed a reminder to water the flowers. Had J.P. watered his plants and bid goodbye to Courfeyrac before passing away? _Probably not_ , reflected Alexandre.

On a table, a paper lay, an unfinished farewell letter from two students named Joly and Bossuet to a woman named Musichetta. Poor Musichetta had never received the note from her boyfriends. Alexandre prayed that she had not been forced to scrub their blood off the pavement.

The same table showed a collection of scratched-on words. One of them was a note a certain Bahorel had written to a man named Feuilly, thanking him for a fan. _My mistress appreciated the gift very much_ , he had said. _My thanks for making and painting it for free._

 _This Bahorel must have been a thoughtful lover, and Feuilly a talented artist_ , Alexandre thought. _And the two of them great friends._

The wall had a map drawn in chalk. It was a plan of the surrounding area, showing where to fortify the barricade, who to post to which areas, assignments for the night watch, and where to find supplies, all made by a certain Combeferre. _This man was a great strategist_ , Alexandre said to himself. _Had he fought on my side, he might have lived._

Suddenly, the soldier remembered that he had been called upstairs. The captain would be impatiently stomping around in his polished boots by now.

Alexandre reached the second floor of the cafe breathless. The captain gave him a short nod, then gestured to the floor. “Well, boy,” he grunted curtly, “what do you propose to do with these men?”

At their feet lay two corpses. One was Apollo come to the world, a young man who Alexandre recognized as a scion of one of the richest families in Paris, and as the leader of the revolt, charming and capable of being terrible.

His left hand tightly clasped another man who was everything he was not. Inordinately homely, with dark curly hair and the remnants of a drunken blush on his face.

However different these two men were, they shared the same tranquil, contented smile.

Alexandre knew what was being asked of him. A coffin could only fit one body, and the families might object to this pair clasping hands in death, seeing how many of the bourgeois disliked inverts.

It was easy enough to try to pry their hands apart, or separate them forcibly with an axe and hold separate closed coffin funerals to hide the injury done to the bodies. Despite his captain’s possible disapproval, Alexandre let emotion take over for once.

“Sir, I believe we should leave them be,” he replied. “I mean, bury them in this way, holding hands, make them share a tomb. Clearly these men had a great love for each other in life, and it would be a grave sin not to honor that love in death.”

To his surprise, the captain agreed. “You were always sentimental, weren’t you, boy? All right, then. Let’s have these two buried together.”

**Author's Note:**

> Original post on my tumblr: 
> 
> http://metellus-cimber.tumblr.com/post/120784848772/barricade-day-ficlet
> 
> -"Invert" is an old term for queer* individuals. If I've misused it, feel free to let me know.
> 
> -I based this off a post (I can't find the link anymore) with multiple headcanons about whether Enjolras and Grantaire were separated or not. They probably were, but I am a shipper and a fanfic writer. They could have stayed together too, due to rigor mortis, unless they were forcibly separated (equally, if not more, likely).
> 
> Constructive criticism is appreciated.
> 
> Thanks for reading~!


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